


Figs From Thistles

by ionthesparrow



Series: Written Works [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Lydia,” she says without preamble, “I have got to get out of this town.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Figs From Thistles

 

 

The morning after Allison leaves Scott, she goes into work with a veneer of calm as thin and fragile as bone china. 

She works on the same campus she attended at as an undergrad, in the same library she studied in. The advantage here, is that her feet take her to work easy and mindlessly. There might as well be a rut in the ground to mark the way. The disadvantage is that her mind is free to wander, free to remind her that she’s torpedoed the best part of her life, because she felt stuck and smothered, and yet she’s still here, reporting for duty to do the exact same thing she did yesterday. The exact same thing she’ll do tomorrow. 

She pauses outside the building, one hand on the railing, to collect herself. It’s one thing to cry while you’re at work, but it’s quite another to walk into work crying. Besides, there are _undergrads_ on the main floor. 

Once she’s safely ensconced in the rare book conservation office (where “office” is stretching it, even by academic standards, and should be read as “windowless basement closet”) she relaxes, slightly. It’s a tiny space made tinier by stacks of books and documents in varying stages of decay. Some days it’s horrifyingly claustrophobic, but today the walls pressing in feel like the only thing holding her up. 

She is in week two of cataloging the condition of a collection slated for transfer offsite. Titles like _A Discourse of the Whole Art of Chyrurgerie_ , and _De Humani Corporis_ , and _Traité d’anatomie topographique_ surround her. Her days are filled with making of notes that read, “page 83 – minor water damage; page 84 – small tear, lower right corner. Minor water damage; page 85 – minor water damage.” The next page is a plate depicting a woman face, partially devoured by tumorous growths. She pauses, studying the fine etching marks. The artist had taken the time to depict the woman’s lacy collar. There’s no damage. Allison moves on. 

She comes home that night and finds a note from Scott saying he’s staying with Jackson till next Tuesday. Could she please be moved out then? Allison freezes a second, bites her lip hard, and then she throws some things into a bag and drives to her parents’ house. 

Allison sets her duffel down on the tile floor of her parents’ foyer and looks up the stairs. It’s the same house she lived in when she finished high school. The same one she visited on trips home from college. Her parents have stayed in Beacon Hills longer than she can remember them staying anywhere else. Who knows why, she ponders, fingering the strap of her bag and looking up the stairs with a sense of dread. Maybe they like Beacon Hills. Maybe they like being able to keep an eye on Derek and his pack. Maybe they’re just getting old. Anyway, it’s the same house she moved out of five years ago. 

And now she’s back. 

Not that she’s ever really been that far – college was a couple hour’s drive away. The apartment she shares – _shared_ , she corrects herself – with Scott was just a stone’s throw from campus. 

This is not a conversation she is looking forward to having. “You were right” is a hard enough thing to say; it’s exponentially worse when you have to say it to your mother. When Allison thinks about having to add the context “about Scott,” the whole conversation sounds impossible. It’s worse than impossible because, despite how her mother’s going to interpret it, she _wasn’t_ right, not really. 

She had said Scott was _dangerous_. 

She finds her mother in what used to be Allison’s bedroom and is now her mother’s workroom. They’re not sentimental people, her parents. Her mother is meticulously stringing seed beads onto gossamer-thin thread. Her hands move with perfect, repeated precision. She smiles at Allison when she comes in, but doesn’t stop working. Allison pulls up a chair to watch her, watches her fingers make tiny, deft movements with the thread, the absentminded way she pushes up her reading glasses as they slip down her nose. 

“How’s business?” Allison asks, chin cupped in her hands. 

Her mother shrugs. “It covers the cost of materials. That’s about it.” She looks a little rueful, a little amused. Allison’s mother has an Etsy shop with various and sundry beaded things and a jealously guarded 100% positive feedback rating. 

Allison twists her hands in her lap, and looks up to find her mother watching her over the rim of her glasses. “Scott and I broke up,” Allison says, pleased that her voice is steady. 

Her mother’s hands stop moving. “Oh, Allison.” There’s just enough mercy in her voice that Allison can’t help the hot tears that start leaking down her face. “What happened?” 

Allison squeezes her eyes shut, swallows a sob. She wonders if everyone is embarrassed to cry in front of their mother. She gestures uselessly with her hand. “I just… I’m not happy.” 

Her mother looks puzzled. “Maybe you just need some time,” she tries, cautiously. 

Allison drops her hands away from her face, and it’s like a switch has been flipped inside her from sad to furious. “Time? I feel like I’ve been spinning my wheels for _years_! I’m living in the same city I went to college. Working for my alma mater on the same campus. Dating the same boy since sophomore year of high school. I’ve been doing nothing but _waste_ time!” 

Her mother raises a brow at this outburst. She gets up and comes to sit next to Allison. She settles a gentle, if somewhat awkward, arm around her. “Honey,” she murmurs. 

“I just feel like I could be doing something more.” Allison does her best to wipe her face. “Like I _should_ be doing something more.” 

 

 

After a month, Allison stops feeling like she’s on the verge of sobbing with every breath. 

After three, the impossibly heavy boulder on her chest starts to lighten. 

The need to move, the itch that she should be doing _something_ , never goes away. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

“Lydia,” she says without preamble, “I have got to get out of this town.” 

Lydia’s voice is remarkably bright for coming across the phone lines from thousands of miles away; she sounds utterly unsurprised, either to hear from Allison, or by her statement. “Well. I could have told you that _ages_ ago.” 

Allison sighs, long and frustrated. She closes her eyes; this is her Hail Mary. “Please. I have enough saved up for a ticket – can I come and hang out with you for a few weeks?” 

There is a long pause, and when Lydia finally speaks she sounds a bit cautious. Of course, that could be due to Allison’s tone. Allison is aware she sounds a little wild, a little desperate. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Allison.” 

“Why not? I won’t bother you, I know you’re busy.” Allison’s starting to feel frantic. “I just need somewhere to stay. And I need to get out of here.” 

Lydia is slow to respond, but as she speaks she picks up speed. “Well… I’ll… To be honest with you, right now I’m in an ugly-ass conference room, in the financial district of… some city. I’m not even sure where. Somewhere in northern Europe. It’s not exactly Vacationville.” In the background of Lydia’s call, Allison can hear voices reeling off strings of numbers. 

Allison feels like it would be impossible to get across how much this doesn’t matter to her. “Lydia. Please.” 

Allison hears a noise like Lydia is scrubbing a hand over her face. “Tell you what,” she says to Allison, “my company is doing some development work in… Kenya.” 

Allison’s brow furrows. “Kenya?” 

“Yes. You know, targeted investing. Microloans. Orphans. The whole bit.” Her voice is falsely cheerful in a way that makes Allison suspicious. “Beautiful country,” she continues. “You’ll love it. Perfect for a change of scenery.” 

Allison remains skeptical. “And you’ll be there?” 

“Oh! Yes.” Lydia says brightly. “And I could use you in Kenya. But not in Europe. Definitely not Europe.” 

There’s an almost-nervous sounding patter to Lydia’s voice that gives her pause, but in the end it’s a way out and a way out is what she needs. “Sure,” Allison says, shrugging. 

“Really?” Lydia sounds surprised, but she recovers quickly. “All right. Come on out. Tell me when you’re flying out and I’ll be there to meet you.” She pauses, then adds, “Oh, and you should probably run it by Derek.” 

That’s a terrifying prospect. “And if he says no?” 

“Well, then you don’t come,” Lydia answers. 

“Really?” Allison can’t keep the surprise out of her voice. 

“Yes, really,” Lydia replies curtly. “Call it professional courtesy.” 

Allison blows out a long breath. “Fine, I’ll let you know what he says.” 

“Yeah, something tells me he’ll find a way to let me know himself,” Lydia remarks. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

It burns a little, having to ask. And Lydia’s right. Derek doesn’t even wait until Allison’s left the room; he hardly waits until she’s done asking, just picks up his phone and calls, maintaining eye contact while it rings. 

Then he winces slightly and holds it away from his ear. “Sorry,” he says into the phone, not sounding sorry in the least, and then, “I didn’t realize what time it was,” in a tone that makes it clear it wouldn’t have mattered. 

There’s a beat and Derek says, “Allison wants to go work for you. In _Kenya_?” He’s still looking right at her. 

There’s a long pause during which Allison wonders what Lydia is telling him. Is she arguing her case? Is she telling Derek not to let Allison come after all? 

In the end, Derek just asks Lydia, “Can you keep her safe?” And whatever Lydia has to say must be the right answer, because he closes the phone and looks at her. “Okay,” he says, finally addressing Allison. “If this is what you want.” 

He looks so sad that all Allison can do is nod. She bites the inside of her cheek. 

“You know you don’t have to,” Derek says, turning the phone over in his hands. “Just because you and Scott… you don’t have to leave.” 

“I want to,” she presses. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Two seconds (and a million years later) she is sitting in JFK, waiting to board a flight to Schiphol. This is where she meets Alex. And this is where the plan starts to go off the rails. 

The gate in JFK is packed, and Allison ends up squeezing into an empty seat, holding her bag on her lap in front of her. To her right is a woman fully absorbed in managing the three small children crawling at their feet. To her left is an enormous young man, obsessively texting. Allison thinks he must be over six feet tall. His legs are stretched out far in front of him, and his hands dwarf the phone. Allison pulls out a book. This is the curse of having a degree in European history: she will constantly be blowing her money on _just one more_ book. Well, that and the employment prospects. 

While she’s reading, the noises of the airport fade into a dull background hum and the spell isn’t broken until one of the children on the floor uses the hem of Allison’s skirt to pull himself upright. She looks up, feeling a flash of irritation followed by chagrin. It’s just a kid after all, and now he’s standing in front of her, wobbling slightly, and his mother is already apologizing. 

“It’s fine,” she says, brushing off the apology. She turns away and finds the man on her other side is staring at her. He smiles at her. Allison gives him a restrained nod in return, mentally rolling her eyes, because he’s sort of strange-looking, rumpled and unkempt, but in a nice suit. And when he smiled, she could see he was missing teeth. Also, men: she has had just about enough of them lately, thank you. 

“Is good book?” he asks in a heavily accented voice. 

Allison winces in the universal manner of anyone whose reading has been interrupted for the purpose of being hit on. She glances at the cover, then at him. It’s a history of the siege of Leningrad. It’s good, but it’s not exactly beach reading. “Yes,” she answers cautiously. “It’s very good.” 

Her neighbor nods to himself, somber. And just when Allison is about to return to her reading, he adds, “My grandmother was there.” 

And, yes, now that’s she’s paying attention, his accent is in fact, Russian. Her curiosity gets the better of her and she sets the book down. “Really? How old was she?” 

Half an hour later, by the time boarding has started for their flight, they’re both crying. Alex has tears streaming down his face, seemingly not embarrassed in the least. He gets up regretfully when they call first class, patting her shoulder and thanking her as if she’s done something. 

She sort of assumes that’s that. That it’s just one of those weird, intense moments you sometimes share with a stranger you’re never going to see again. But then, after she’s boarded and settled into her seat, she’s approached by the stewardess who informs her that there’s a seat waiting for her up in first class, if she wants it. _If she wants it_. It’s a seven hour flight, of course she wants it. 

This is how she ends up in first class, seated next to Alex, drinking wine from tiny bottles that the flight attendants keep delivering. 

“Usually I buy seat next to me too,” Alex explains, loose and grinning widely. “So nobody bother me. But I think you make flight go faster.” 

“Oh, _thanks_.” Allison is drunk enough to be sarcastic in the face of his generosity. “I really appreciate being your inflight entertainment.” 

He nods, magnanimous. “Why are you going to Amsterdam?” 

So she tells him. 

She gets to the part where she says, “And then I gave him the ring back. And then he asked me to move out.” 

Alex interrupts, wincing. “Ouch.” 

“Yeah,” Allison agrees, twirling her empty glass. “Definitely ouch.” 

They both sit for a second in silence, each meditating on their own, individual fuck ups. 

Alex snags the flight attendant the next time she walks by. “We need,” he says, enunciating very carefully, “to switch to vodka.” 

Later, he says, “Wait. I do not understand why you need to ask your friend’s permission to work for this other friend in Kenya?” 

Allison pauses, train of thought broken, midstream. “It’s complicated,” she hedges. Then, “You know what? I don’t really understand either.” 

And much later, when they’ve been instructed to bring their seats upright, and lock their tray tables, he says, “Wait. You read all these books. Study these things. And you’ve _never_ been to Russia?” 

Allison shakes her head sadly, “Or France. Or Spain. Or any of the other places I studied.” 

“Allison,” he says, sounding perfectly serious, even if he looks somewhat red-eyed and bleary, “you should just _go_.” 

When they de-plane they swap numbers, and he presses a card into her hand. “You will come visit me at my dacha, yes? I would take you now, but I am supposed to be meeting my summer girlfriend in Paris, and – ” here he grimaces dramatically, “she would string me up in pieces if I am late.” 

Allison smiles, insists that she understands, and hugs him goodbye. Somewhere in the terminal is her connecting gate to Nairobi. She turns to watch Alex leave, but he’s already disappeared into the crowd. Instead, her eye catches on the departures board. It’s like a list of places she would like to see. She turns towards her gate. Then back toward the board. 

_Fuck it_ , she thinks, _let’s do this_. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

She uses the airport wifi to send a message to Lydia to the effect of, “Sorry. And thanks but no thanks.” 

Then it’s just her, a departures board listing dozens of different possible destinations, and few hundred strangers, who are – Allison realizes suddenly – in imminent danger of witnessing what may be her quarter-life crisis. She swallows around a lump in her throat. Her eyes linger on Istanbul, and then Barcelona, and then Florence. But really, if she’s come all this way, there’s only one place she knows she’ll end up eventually, only one place she really needs to see. Why not _just go_? 

And so she boards a plane headed to Lyon, France – the closest international air travel can get her to the parish of La Besseyre-Saint-Mary. Which is where it all started really, where her many-times-great-grandfather was born. Where Jean Chastel first manufactured a silver bullet, and killed his first werewolf. 

Sitting on the plane, she pulls out the history of the Beast of Gévaudan that Kate gave her. She runs her hand along the leather binding. By this point it’s more talisman than research material – she knows the story so well she could recite it by heart. She knows all about how villagers started disappearing, about the sightings of an enormous wolf in the woods. How the king sent out a royal hunting party to kill the wolf, and how they came up empty-handed. And finally how in 1764, Jean Chastel, local innkeeper, had killed the beast with a silver bullet blessed by the priest. But she still has favorite sections she reads over periodically. She loves the chapter given over to a translation of the notes made by the Lieutenant sent by Louis XV – the one who led the first, unsuccessful, hunt to kill the beast. He had a flair for the dramatic and apparently viewed the whole endeavor as an extended holiday. Allison turns to one dog-eared page: 

>   
>  _Today We Dined on a Most Delightful Stew, Kindled into Existence by Auguste Xavier Adenot – Our Aide-de-Camp, a Young Man Of Most Vivacious Spirit and (God Be Thanked) Much Improving Culinary Skills. He Has Employed Vegetables of the Local Varietie, and I Begin to See How These Peasants Maintain Such Pleasant Rotundity._   
> 

And of course, there’s the story as told by Jean Chastel himself. It’s a bit gloating, a bit show-boaty in places, but mostly what Allison’s intrigued by is the brief description of what he plans to do with his future: 

>   
>  _Such That This Can Never Happen Again – I Am Building An Enclosure. With The Church’s Help, This Trap Will Prevent These Terrible Beasts From Ever Harming Another Soul. It Shall Be My Greatest Work._   
> 

The page is illustrated by an old-fashioned looking woodcut depicting Chastel and his rifle, as well as a strange sketch of an object that’s somewhere between oblong and star-shaped. Neither is captioned, and the latter especially continues to mystify her. She closes the book, eyes growing heavy. She’s all-out crashing by the time she gets to Lyon. Exhausted, she makes her way to a nearby hostel and wearily sigh sets her belonging down at the check in desk. 

The clerk glances up and quickly pegs her nationality. “Welcome. Do you need a room?” 

Allison nods and, while the clerk checks her in, looks around. Simple. Clean. Good enough. 

“Are you going to see the Forest?” Allison glances up sharply. The clerk nods at the embossed letters – _The Beast of Gévaudan_ – running down the spine of the book she has set on the counter. She nods, feeling a touch of typical tourist embarrassment. But the clerk just smiles. “It is about an hour, by bus. I can show you tomorrow. There is a conservation park there now.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You should see the church too,” the clerk says, handing over a room key. 

Allison frowns. “The church?” 

“The church Jean Chastel was buried in? It is quite near here. You can walk.” The clerk gestures toward the west and shrugs. “It is quite pretty.” 

 

 

She wakes up early the next morning – her body disoriented and her mind acutely aware that she’s alone and far from home. She listens to the thump of pipes in the wall and the early morning traffic outside the hostel’s thin walls. There is a part of her that wants to pull the coverlet back up over her head. What is she doing here? “Allison,” she tells herself out loud, “you can do this. People do this. All the time. This is not scary.” 

She slides her feet out and onto the floor, and takes a second before standing. It might be easier to wake up alone in a strange bed, in a strange place, rather than her own. It’s hard to tell yet. She stands and tries not to think about the fact that Scott would have a million jokes to make about this place, about the room. The cobblestone streets. He would have loved it. 

While she’s shoving that thought away, the phone on her nightstand rings. Which is odd, to say the least. “Hello?” she answers cautiously. 

“You are supposed to be in Nairobi. Not in Lyon. In fact, I think I was pretty explicit about you not being in Europe.” Lydia sounds altogether too chipper for Allison’s current state of jetlag. 

“You can’t call dibs on an entire continent, Lydia,” Allison points out. 

Lydia sniffs delicately. “I don’t see why not. I got here first.” 

“Oh,” Allison says archly, “so you are _here_. Not in Kenya?” 

“That is neither here nor there.” 

“You’re ducking me by sending me _thousands_ of miles away from you, and it’s not relevant?” Allison questions. 

“Oh, doll,” Lydia’s voice slips from haughty and teasing to flirtatious. “You know I’d be right there with you if I could be.” 

Allison pauses. Post-Scott, flirting has been something to be avoided, something that throws salt on all her raw edges. But she is strangely alright with this. “So, what then?” she asks coyly, “You’re just trying to get me to avoid an entire continent. You want to give me the reason why?” 

“It is the world’s second smallest. It shouldn’t be that hard to miss,” Lydia counters. 

Allison rolls her eyes. “I take it that’s a ‘no’ on telling me whatever it is you’re up to?” 

“Allison – tell you what, I’ll send someone to you, and – ” 

Allison knows Lydia’s _let’s make a deal_ voice, and really doesn’t feel like playing along. “No. If you’re not going to play straight with me, I’m not going to play. So, it’s my credit card debt, I’ll accrue it however I want. Now I’m sorry, but I have historical sights to go see.” And she hangs up. 

The church _is_ quite pretty. Early morning light glints off stone still wet from last night’s rain. The whole place feels washed clean, and at the same time impossibly old. She pushes through the doors and the light changes; the interior has a cool, dim calm to it. Tiny cyclones of dust rise up in the shafts of sunlight. 

Allison pauses. She is surrounded by a dozen faces. The images of saints peer down at her from the walls. And of course, nearest the altar, encased in glass, is the tribute to the church’s most famous son: the rifle carried by Jean Chastel, the weapon he used to kill the Beast. It’s strange, Allison thinks, eyes sliding over the dull metal, seeing a weapon – a gun – housed in a church like a holy relic. 

There are a few other small exhibits in this tiny tribute-cum-museum. The story of Chastel’s hunt and of the blessed silver bullets is written out in French and English next to the rifle case. But Allison’s eyes catch instead on the church registry, the crumbling leather-bound volume that where all births, marriages, and deaths were recorded. The book is safely ensconced under glass, and open to the page where, in 1790, Chastel’s death was entered into the ledger. It’s a simple, single line: 

_3 Avril 1790 – Jean Chastel – est mort._

Allison frowns and leans closer. The writing is faded; the pages of the book are tissue paper thin. But even in the dim light, she can tell that at some point, someone tried to deface the entry. And what more, there’s marginalia – writing scrawled in the periphery of the page. It’s written heavily, like someone pressed it into the page forcefully, angrily. Curving around the end of the page and into the margin, so that she can just barely make it out, it reads: 

_Fils de Cain! Claudius! Romulus! AXA._

_Weird_ , Allison thinks. But clearly, one doesn’t become a town’s most celebrated figure without making a few enemies along the way. But who would have come out here, thirty years after Chastel’s famous hunt, just to spit on his grave? Or maybe the graffiti isn’t even contemporary, maybe someone wrote it a hundred years after the fact. And what does A X A mean? A times A? A squared? 

She steps out into the sunlight and blinks the dazzle out of her eyes. She turns the puzzle over in her head as she walks, smiles absently at the desk clerk – who she needs to remember to ask for directions to the bus – as she climbs the stairs to her room. What a strange anonymous comment to leave on someone’s life. _Or maybe_ , she thinks, actually pausing in her climb before rushing the last few steps to her room, _not anonymous at all_. Maybe it’s a signed statement. Maybe they’re initials. She grabs her well-worn copy of _The Beast of Gévaudan_ off the shelf and flips to the section she was reading yesterday. 

_...Kindled into Existence by Auguste Xavier Adenot – Our Aide-de-Camp, a Young Man Of Most Vivacious Spirit..._

And that, thinks Allison, that _would_ be something. Now she wants to know more – not about her famous ancestor, whose life is celebrated in legend, whose accomplishments are known to every school child in the region – but rather she wants to know about Auguste. Auguste, who no one seems to remember, who would have been just a boy when he knew Jean Chastel and yet saw fit to hate him. Maybe. If her hunch is correct. 

She drops the book and skips back down the stairs. She approaches the clerk, who looks somewhat startled by her sudden reappearance. Allison smiles at her. “If you were interested in tracking down information about someone who lived here a long time ago, where would you go?” 

The clerk blinks. “Information? Like genealogy? Family tree?” 

Allison nods. “Yeah. Birthdate. Death. What happened to him. That sort of thing.” 

The clerk frowns. “Well. To start – what do you know?” 

“I know the name. I know he was part of the Royal Army. And I know he was here in 1790 or just after. He was called – ” 

But the clerk is already waving her off. “If he was part of the Royal Army and here in the 1790s, I can tell you what happened to him. He would have fled. This part of the country was not kind to Monarchists.” 

Allison mentally slaps herself. Revolution. Reign of Terror. Right. She drums her fingers thoughtfully. “Where did they go?” 

The clerk shrugs and tips her head to the east. “Many fled across the Rhine. Those that were not killed outright, anyway.” She pauses, seemingly confused by Allison’s interest. “Are you still interested in purchasing a bus ticket?” 

Allison nods. 

“To Gévaudan, yes?” 

“No.” Allison shakes her head. “No, I need to go to Germany.” 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Germany lives up to its reputation for order and efficiency, and deep in the ledgers of Marlen, the third border town she tries, she finds a Record of Immigration for one Auguste Xavier Adenot in the summer of 1790. She pauses, staring down at the page, and for a moment the years drop away, and she wonders what he was thinking when he arrived here. Was he terrified? Was he angry? Why would he have risked crossing through a revolutionary stronghold just to deface the death record of Jean Chastel? And what happened thirty years earlier, when they met, to cause such animosity? 

The immigration records, however, turn out to be the exception. In the rest of the town’s census materials the page that should contain Auguste Xavier Adenot’s information is conspicuously missing. 

She tries the church next, looking for marriage records. She wants to see if he built a life for himself here in the Rhine valley, but again - there’s nothing. On her way out she passes the church altar and stops dead. She turns back. Behind the altar is a large wooden carving with intricate depictions of the familiar stories. It’s inlaid in places with decorative gold – and one of those pieces looks familiar. Glancing around to make sure she’s alone, she stoops down to study it closer. The gold piece is carved with a wolf and a sheaf of arrows, and it is unmistakably a copy of the design on the necklace Kate gave to her. She runs a finger over it, before feeling guilty and bringing her hand back. 

Strange all around, this town. 

She looks, but there’s no one to ask about the design. She resolves to come back tomorrow. 

She is crossing the lobby of her hotel when a man in the corner of the room sets down his newspaper and moves to intercept her. She stops short. 

“Allison Argent,” he says. There is no question in his voice. 

Allison’s heart speeds up, and she feels a cold pulse of adrenaline. 

The man smiles. “My name is Jos de Boer. I work for Lydia Martin. May I have a word?” 

He is not a tall man. With close-cropped hair and wire-rim glasses, he is utterly nonthreatening. Allison nods slowly. “Sure.” 

He gestures to the café across the street. “Will this do?” 

They cross the street. Allison feels strangely conspicuous, but of course no one else notices them. Jos settles them into two chairs in the corner, and after a moment of silence Allison can’t help herself. “You certainly got here quickly.” 

Jos shrugs and gives her a bashful look. He has a very faint accent that Allison can’t quite place. “When you didn’t make your flight, Lydia was quite concerned.” 

Allison flushes, feeling a touch guilty. “I _am_ sorry. I just – I had some things I wanted to look into.” 

Jos nods thoughtfully, clearly waiting for her to elaborate. 

She feels a bit silly. “I’m doing some… genealogical research. I think it could be important. Or at least, interesting.” 

Jos raises an eyebrow. “All right. And it’s going… well?” He continues awkwardly, “No problems?” 

“No.” She frowns. “Is there something I should be concerned about?” 

“No, no.” Jos folds his hands on the table. “Lydia only worries, yes? And it has been – ” he checks his watch, “ninety-eight hours since you contacted anyone you know.” 

Allison sits back in her seat. “That’s sort of creepy, you realize.” 

Jos shrugs. “It’s part of my job to be precise.” 

Allison looks at him in disbelief. “I meant that you know who I have or haven’t contacted.” 

“Oh. Well.” Jos looks embarrassed. “I did mention I work for Lydia, yes?” 

“Right – yes, world’s biggest busy body, I know.” Allison rolls her eyes. “So if she’s so worried, how come she sent you?” 

“She would have come – ” and here Jos pauses, and his eyes dart to the side, “ – but she wasn’t sure of how her reception would be. You made it rather clear you didn’t want to see her.” 

Allison’s first instinct is to smooth this over – to reassure Jos and by extension Lydia that this wasn’t what she meant to convey. But there’s something in Jos’ voice, something in his hesitation that pings on her radar of insincerity. So instead she draws out the silence, picking her words carefully. “Lydia knows she’s my friend. She knows she’s always welcome. I told you, I just had something I wanted to investigate. Something important to me.” 

Jos studies her carefully over the rim of glasses. “I see.” He twirls the dregs of his coffee, then looks up at her again. “I don’t suppose,” he says very softly, “that you’d consider coming back to Amsterdam with me? You could continue your investigations there. We could help you.” 

Allison gets a sudden flutter of nerves in her chest. She shakes her head. “I think this is something I’d rather do on my own.” 

Jos nods. “I see.” He drums his fingers along the edge of the table in a way that reminds her of Lydia. “It would be… safer for you to come with me. Would that influence your decision?” 

Allison’s hands ball into fists under the table. “Jos. I’m going to ask you this again, and I’d like you’ll give me a straight answer. Is there something you’re not telling me? Something I should be concerned about?” 

Jos makes a face like he’s bitten into a lemon. His eyes flick up to here and there’s a long beat of silence before he responds. “No.” 

Allison looks at him steadily. “Then I guess we’re done here. Give Lydia my best.” 

“I will.” Jos motions for the check. “How long do you plan on being in town, Allison?” 

“A few more days. Maybe a week.” She stands up. 

“Maybe I’ll see you around then?” He looks up at her. 

“Maybe you will,” she agrees. 

 

 

Allison leaves town that night, buying a ticket in cash, and hopping the train north. Frankfurt, Genealogy.com tells her, is where the largest concentration of Adenots in Germany live. Frankfurt is also home to a historical archive that her professors back in school used to speak of in reverent tones, which makes it an obvious stop for her. Too obvious, apparently, because the reference librarian she asked to help her comes back not with the documents she asked for, but with a bewildered expression and the news that there is a call for her at the front desk. 

“Are you serious?” Allison asks the librarian. 

The librarian does not look like the kind who would joke about this sort of thing. Or about anything, really. Taking the phone, she says, “Lydia. Seriously. The stalking thing – not cool.” 

There’s a beat and then Lydia sighs. “Is the magic gone already, darling?” 

Allison bites the inside of her cheek. 

“I can hear you trying to not to laugh, you know,” Lydia says. 

Allison reaffirms her resolution not to find people she is irritated with amusing. “What’s up, Lydia?” 

“You shouldn’t have ditched Jos. It hurt his feelings,” she replies. 

“He was sort of cramping my style,” Allison counters. 

Lydia snorts. “Jos is so inoffensive it would be almost impossible for him to cramp anything. How’s the research going?” 

“You tell me – since you seem to be overseeing everything.” 

Lydia hums into the phone. “Just keeping an eye on you. And I can’t help but wish you were closer.” 

And there’s that flirtatious tone again, the one Allison keeps catching on the edges of their conversations and then dismissing as her imagination. She twists the phone cord in her fingers. “Well, why don’t you come down here yourself then and say hello, instead of sending your minion after me. Too busy?” she taunts. 

“You know I’d drop everything to come see you if I could, Allison,” Lydia practically purrs, seemingly pleased that Allison’s playing along. 

Allison is surprisingly disappointed that Lydia’s not around. “So why don’t you?” 

Lydia sighs. “It’s complicated.” 

Allison’s tone switches to irritated. “This is going to be one of those things you won’t tell me about, isn’t it? You know what, I think we’re done talking.” 

“Allison – wait. I’m just trying to keep you safe. I really am.” Lydia abruptly sounds sad, and tired. 

“Keeping me in the dark is not the safe as keeping me safe,” Allison says softly. There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line and Allison imagines Lydia taking the time to craft her next line. That seems like too much to bear, so Allison sets the receiver back in its cradle, fending off sudden pangs of loneliness and disappointment. 

Shaking it off, she turns her attention to the librarian, who is frowning over his computer. He squints at the screen. “This is interesting.” 

Allison leans forward to look over his shoulder, hoping _interesting_ means he found something. 

He scratches his chin. “We do have records of a collection of documents related to that name, but they were all apparently purchased by a private collator several years ago. That’s a very rare occurrence. I’m sorry. It says here they were purchased by Moorelock Financial.” 

Allison feels her mouth drop open. “That _bitch_.” The librarian looks at her with surprise. Allison shakes her head – it’s too much to explain – so instead she just takes off. 

She makes it only as far as the stairs before she runs straight into Jos. Because, clearly, the universe’s deck is stacked against her. He smiles. She glares. “Really not in the mood for this, Jos.” 

“Let’s have a coffee,” he says, as if he hasn’t heard her. 

“I’m really not feeling chatty.” Allison starts to push past him, but Jos holds onto her arm. 

He looks at her meaningfully. “Then I’ll be the chatty one.” He looks ridiculous saying _chatty_. 

“I’m not really sure I can think of _anything_ I want to hear from you at the moment.” And it’s sort of blaming the messenger, but she’s _pissed_. 

Jos just holds her gaze, steady. “Oh. I can think of lots of things.” 

But when they finally sit down across a table, he’s quiet. Allison waits, impatiently stewing, while Jos studies the pattern on the tablecloth, the wallpaper, the other patrons. Finally, he picks up a tiny spoon to stir his coffee and says, “Lydia offered you a position in Nairobi, yes?” 

Allison narrows her eyes and looks at him, but he’s staring deeply into his cup. “I’m not – ” 

“Interested. Yes, I know.” He looks up and gives her a small smile. “But there are lots of available positions at Moorelock.” 

Allison rolls her eyes, but Jos continues undaunted. “There’s an opening in PR in the Paris office. Or,” he looks up to meet her gaze, “for someone of your background there’s always opportunities at the Moorelock Archives. In Brussels.” 

“The archives. In Brussels.” Allison repeats slowly. 

He smiles, his blue eyes unblinking. “Yes.” He nods, then sets his spoon down, coffee still untouched. “If you would excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” He pushes away from the table and leaves. 

Allison purses her lips and stares after him. Then she looks at the jacket he left draped over the back of his chair. And then back towards the hallway he disappeared down. As soon as she’s made the decision to, she’s moving fast, grabbing his coat, patting down the pockets. In one of them is his wallet. And in the front compartment is a Moorelock access badge. She snags it, stuffs it into her purse, and replaces his coat, just as Jos returns. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, swooping up his jacket and tossing a few euros onto the table. “I’ve just remembered a very important appointment. Some other time?” 

Allison holds her hands out and shrugs. “Of course.” She watches him leave and shakes her head. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Jos’ badge is like a magic backstage pass. Allison ends up in an enormous warehouse of a building. Due to the advantages of private funding, it’s nicer and better organized that any public archive she’s been in. What it seems to be, Allison determines after scanning the catalogues, is a remarkably complete record of information on the history of werewolves in Europe, dating from the present day back into who knows when. With the help of the online index system, she finds that not only does Moorelock have information on Auguste Xavier Adenot, it has a whole _section_ on him. 

There are scraps of information documenting his childhood in Paris and his conscription into the royal army. But where the documentation really takes off are the copies of the letters he wrote from Gévaudan. Allison rifles through them quickly, and skimming she learns he claims he met the Beast. _Spoke_ to him. 

And that his name was Phillipe Chastel – Jean Chastel’s brother. 

Allison rocks back in her chair. She holds the papers loosely, the surprise shocking her into stillness. 

Dimly, she becomes aware of the sound of a cellphone ringing. This is odd because it is coming from her bag, and Allison is reasonably sure she doesn’t have a cellphone. Not one that works on this continent, anyway. 

She digs out the ringing phone. She doesn’t recognize it, but she flips it open. 

Lydia says, “Please tell me you’re not breaking into my archive.” 

Allison looks around her at the empty room. “Breaking in seems like sort of strong language for it.” 

Lydia sighs. “Allison – ” 

And maybe it’s the shock of trying to resolve _national hero_ with _fratricide_ , or maybe it’s loneliness, or just the stress of the last few months catching up with her, but suddenly Allison is done. She’s over it. All of it. She cuts Lydia off, shaking her head even as she realizes Lydia can’t see her. “No. Don’t talk to me. Don’t tell me what you want me to believe. Or what you think I need to hear. Just don’t.” 

There’s silence across the line. 

“I’m done with this,” Allison continues, even as her throat is trying to close. “I’m just done.” She hangs up, leaves the cellphone on the table, and walks out the door. 

 

 

She makes it as far as the train station before she realizes she has nowhere to go. She needs a quiet place to stay, somewhere to collect her thoughts. Somewhere off the grid that’s not going to log her credit card and passport number. 

Right, because that will be _so_ easy to find. Especially in a country she’s never been to before, where she doesn’t speak the language. On a continent where she doesn’t know _anyone_. 

But that’s not quite true. She begins to dig through her purse, and her hand closes around a business card, which she pulls out triumphantly. She does know someone. 

Skeptical about the odds of this actually working, she dials Alex’s number into a pay phone. 

“Hello?” 

She can hear laughter and loud voices in the background. “Hey, Alex. It’s Allison – from the flight to Amsterdam?” 

“Allison!” Alex’s voice is jubilant. “This is wonderful! Are you in Russia?” 

“No – but, I’d love to come.” 

“Of course you must come! We are having a party here! It will be awesome.” And then he’s yelling something in Russian and a chorus of voices answer him. “See? Everyone is excited.” 

His excitement is contagious; it coaxes a small smile out of Allison. “I’m not sure about the visa situation… it might take awhile.” 

Alex dismisses this. “No, no. Just get on a plane to Moscow. I have friends – they’ll make sure you are welcome. Text me your flight number, I will send a car for you. 

“If you’re sure…” Allison trails off. 

“Of course I’m sure. This will be wonderful. You will have an awesome time. But now I have to go – we are throwing my brother into the pool.” 

Allison’s eyebrows rise. “All right? Have fun with that?” 

“See you soon, Allison!” And the line goes dead. She’s left holding the phone, wondering what exactly she’s getting herself into. 

The flight the next day goes smoothly. She experiences a twinge of fear when the immigration officer slides her passport through the reader, blinks at the screen, and then summons a second officer via radio. It is hard to panic though, given how utterly bored both the officials look. She is escorted to a small office and instructed to wait. Eventually a third bored, official appears. He reads over her documents, stares at his computer screen, scribbles something on a form, and sends her to a second office. Where she waits, again. Finally, just as she’s given up hope, yet another immigration official appears, this one in a suit rather than a uniform. He barely glances at the forms she’s clutching, just slaps a visa into her passport and hands it back to her. 

“That’s it?” she asks. 

He frowns at her. 

“That’s all?” 

“That’s all,” he confirms. Then he motions towards the door. “You go.” 

“Thanks?” Allison makes a rapid exit. She clears the hallway and steps out into the pandemonium that is the Moscow international terminal. The sheer volume is overwhelming, and for a moment the thought of retreating back to aircraft is tempting. But her eyes finally light on a man in dark suit and glasses, holding up a sign that reads, simply, ALISON. 

She deposits herself in front of him. “That’s me.” 

He inclines his head graciously, folds the sign, and slips it away. He touches his Bluetooth earpiece, takes her bag, and they’re on their way. She’s escorted to a car and, smoothly and silently, they navigate through the city. The core of downtown slips away and soon they’re rolling down the highway through the suburbs, and finally out into the countryside. 

The car pulls up to a large, gated property. 

Allison rings the doorbell and is promptly shown around back, where, judging from the noise, there is either a small war or a massive party occurring. Overwhelmed, she slinks through the crowd. She feels extraordinarily out of place. For one, she is ridiculously overdressed. All of the women are in tiny bikinis. They are also, to the last, oddly perfect-looking, with long, thin legs and perfect blonde waves of hair. Allison glances down at her t-shirt and jeans and feels a bit slubbish. The men are mostly shirtless and, unlike the women, are actually using the pool, jumping in and out with childish glee. 

“Allison!” she hears, a split second before she is enveloped in a wet bear hug by a still-dripping Alex. “You made it!” She only has time to nod dumbly before he has her by the elbow and is leading her onward. “Come. You must meet my friends. No, first you must have a drink. What would you like to drink?” And hands her a beer. 

He shepherds her around the room, introducing people seemingly at random. It’s all a blur of names and faces, and at worrisomely frequent intervals Alex plucks the empty bottle from her hands and replaces it with a full one. Eventually, he steers her over to a clump of terrifyingly beautiful women. 

“Evgenia,” Alex says to a woman who is clearly ignoring him. He rolls his eyes and looks over at Allison, then back to the woman. “Evgenia!” 

Evgenia has blonde hair that’s been ironed to within an inch of its life and resembles a Barbie doll more than anyone else Allison has ever seen. She breaks off her conversation with her friend by holding up one perfectly manicured finger and then turns to face Alex and Allison. Alex introduces her in Russian. Allison picks out the sound of her own name. “And this,” he says, switching to English, “is Evgenia, my girlfriend.” 

Evgenia slides her sunglasses down her nose a tiny bit and looks Allison up and down. She gives a tiny wave and turns back to her friends. 

Allison hates her on sight but forces a smile onto her face. She turns away as she has clearly been dismissed. Alex is smiling broadly. He seems to think the whole exchange had gone swimmingly. She pushes her beer towards Alex. “You know, I think I’d like to go swimming.” 

Alex shrugs, looking surprised – possibly because none of the other women have ventured near the water as far as Allison can tell. Or possibly because she is already undoing her belt. But hell, swimming in her t-shirt and underwear at some rich guy’s house in Russia suddenly seems like a great idea. She dives in and comes up a few feet away, just in time to see Alex take a great, ungainly leap to follow her. There are a great number of distressed sounds coming from the women caught in the splash zone and Allison laughs. Then she squints at an object bobbing towards her on the water. “Is that a _floating beer pong table_?” 

“You know how to play?” Alex asks delightedly and calls for more beer. 

 

 

They win. And then they lose. And then they win again, or maybe lose? Allison isn’t quite clear on the outcome of the last game. All she knows is that she’s being picked up bodily and swung over Alex’s shoulder as he makes his way out of the pool and across the yard. “What are you doing?” she demands, laughing madly. 

“You are too drunk to be in pool!” Alex answers. He’s trying to sound serious but failing. Then his foot slips on the wet grass, and they almost both go down. 

“You are clearly the drunk one, and you’re going to get us both killed!” Allison is breathless with laughter and also probably from being inverted. 

And okay, maybe Allison is drunk. Not blackout drunk, but tipsy enough that when Alex swings her down off his shoulder and places her on the ground in his living room the world keeps spinning for half a second longer than it should. She puts a hand out to steady herself, and Alex laughs. “Now who is drunk?” he teases. 

She places her hands flat against his chest and presses him backwards. He steps back and, losing his balance, topples neatly onto the couch behind him. She walks up to him, wags a finger in his face. “You. Definitely you.” She pauses, trying to focus. “Okay, maybe both of us.” 

He laughs again. His fingers loop around her wrist easily as he tugs her forward onto his lap. Allison becomes acutely aware of how the wet cotton of her shirt is clinging to her. Distantly, she can hear Alex’s friends and family laughing outside. She brings her other hand down to his collarbone, steadying herself. She can feel his chest rising as he breathes. “This is probably a bad idea,” she says. 

“Mmm,” he agrees. He has a hand in her hair. 

She leans down to kiss him. 

It’s wet and messy and hot enough to drown out any lingering reservations she might have. 

And then a voice says, “Oh, so when Jos told me you were working on something important, this is what he meant?” 

Allison sits back hard. She blinks, but no, Lydia really is standing across the room from them, arms folded primly across her chest, head cocked just so. She looks lovely, and pale, and way too comfortable for someone participating in what is essentially home invasion. Allison gapes. 

“Who is that?” Alex says, craning his neck to look around her. He catches sight of Lydia and his brow furrows. “Oh. Hey! Have we met?” 

“Shut it, ice monkey.” Lydia continues to glare at Allison. “Well. Aren’t you going to say hello?” 

Allison’s mouth works. “What are you doing here?” she manages finally. 

Lydia’s mouth sets into a line and one eyebrow lifts significantly. “Saving your ass and mine. That backchannel visa you got raised a few flags. Do you have any idea how many different radars you’re pinging on right now?” She throws her hands up. “And all so you could fuck some cut-rate hockey player?” 

“That is…” Allison starts. “I… you…” She looks to Alex, frowning. “You play hockey?” 

Alex frowns at her. “Really, Allison? You didn’t notice the – ” and here he waves one arm around the room, gesturing at what Allison now notices is a truly impressive amount of hockey memorabilia. “Also,” he says, sitting up so he can look at Lydia directly, “I am not _cut-rate_. I’ve won _awards_.” 

Lydia narrows her eyes and shifts her gaze to Alex, where it grows even more venomous. “Yeah? Talk to me when you’ve got the Cup.” 

“Ow,” Alex says, making a face of exaggerated pain. “I like her,” he tells Allison. 

Allison looks upwards, imploring the heavens, but Lydia cuts in before she can respond, “Allison, you and I are leaving. Now.” 

This is too much. “What? No. Who do you think you are? Since when do you care about _visa_ issues?” 

“The visa is just the tip of the very large ice berg,” Lydia grinds out. 

“Then why don’t you finally be straight with me,” Allison demands. “Tell me what the fuck is going on!” 

There is an angry shriek from somewhere behind Allison. 

“Oh, shit,” Alex says, and Allison is unceremoniously dumped out of his lap and onto the floor. 

“What the – ” Allison protests but is drowned out by Evgenia snarling something nasty-sounding in Russian. 

Evgenia stalks forward, ignoring both Allison and Lydia, and reaches out to slap Alex across the face. He catches her hand easily. “Ach,” he scolds. And then they’re off and running, quarreling loudly, and even though Allison doesn’t understand a word of it, she’s pretty sure she knows exactly what’s being said. She darts a glance at Lydia, who has one hand pressed to her forehead as though staving off an immense headache. 

The argument ends with Alex stalking off towards the front of the house, Evgenia hot on his heels, still yelling. 

Allison listens to the sounds of yelling grow slightly more distant. Then a door slams. She looks up. 

Lydia is staring down at her. “Seriously. What were you – ” 

She is cut off by the sound of a door being wrenched open, followed quickly by a loud scream. 

Allison watches Lydia’s eyes go wide. “Go out the back!” she calls to Allison and runs after Alex and Evgenia. 

“Yeah, right,” Allison mutters and sprints after her. 

She’s just in time to watch Alex being tossed into the back of a black van by a group of men wearing black fatigues and carrying large guns. She slides to stop in the doorway. 

“Oh for the love of – ” Lydia yells at her, and Allison suddenly notices Lydia and Evgenia crouched out of sight in the corner. Lydia has one hand firmly over Evgenia’s mouth. “Get down!” Lydia hisses. But it’s too late – one of the commandos has spotted her and is raising the alarm. “Fuck. This way!” And Lydia’s off and running towards a car parked in the driveway. Allison runs blindly after her. She dives into the passenger seat, vaguely aware of Lydia throwing herself into the driver’s. Lydia has the key in the ignition and she’s throwing it into gear when they’re both startled by Evgenia screaming and pounding on the window. “Allison – the door!” 

Allison twists herself half into the backseat and wrenches the door open. Evgenia spills into the car, and they fishtail down the drive with the door still gaping. Allison hears the pop of gunfire and she presses herself as far down as possible 

They screech out onto the highway. Evgenia manages to shut the door and the car stops fishtailing. Allison slides up and dares to peep behind them. The black van is still chasing them. Allison can hear the engine straining as Lydia floors it, but the van is closing the distance. 

Evgenia leans forward between the front seats. “налево!”she yells at Lydia. “налево! Идитеналево!” Then she’s pointing wildly and snatching at the wheel. 

“Allison!” Lydia yells. “Deal with your crazy Russian friend!” 

“Um.” Allison reaches out towards Evgenia. 

Evgenia raises one incredulous eyebrow at her. “прикасайсякомне и умереть, сука!” she spits. 

Allison freezes, and Evgenia takes the opportunity to lunge. She vaults herself forward between the seats, then falls sideways, ending up mostly in Lydia’s lap. 

“Holy fucking Christ!” Lydia screams as the car veers wildly. Evgenia grabs the wheel. Lydia squirms out from under her and crawls into the back. The car slows momentarily as Evgenia settles into the driver’s seat. Allison has almost caught her breath when Evgenia slams the car into reverse. Then she whips them around in a nicely executed J-turn, and floors it. Just as they’re about to come into firing range, she hauls the wheel around and sends them down the exit they’d just passed. 

Allison catches Lydia’s eyes in the rearview mirror. She looks rather pale. The reason behind Evgenia’s exit selection becomes obvious immediately: it’s a maze. They’ve just entered a neighborhood of towering concrete block apartment buildings, full of twisting roads and blind dead ends. Evgenia leads them through it, taking a series of rights and lefts until eventually she pulls over in the shadow of an alley. Everyone in the car breaths a collective sigh. 

“Okay,” Allison hears Lydia say from behind her. “Is everyone alright?” 

Allison twists around to stare at her. She can still feeling her heart pounding in her chest. She nods. “Yeah, I think so.” 

Evgenia bursts into tears. 

“Crap,” says Lydia. 

For a long moment, Evgenia’s sobs echo loudly in the silent car. Allison reaches out a tentative hand to stroke her shoulder. “Um. It’s okay? Great driving, by the way.” 

Lydia nods enthusiastically. “Great driving.” 

Evgenia’s sobs subside into a dignified sniffle. She turns around to look at both of them and asks them something in Russian. Allison looks to Lydia who shrugs and shakes her head. Evgenia repeats her question more vehemently. 

“Look, I’m sorry, I don’t speak Russian,” Lydia says. 

Evgenia rolls her eyes and grabs her by the front of her shirt. “Sasha! Sasha!” she says, punctuating each word with a shake. “Alex!” 

A cold wave of fear rolls over Allison. “Oh my god, Alex!” 

Evgenia lets go of Lydia with a gesture of exasperated relief. “Yes! Alex!” 

Lydia closes her eyes and blows out a long breath. “Okay. Yes, we’ll get him back,” she reassures. “But first we need to worry about clothes.” 

“Clothes?” Allison repeats. 

“Yes, Allison,” Lydia addresses the roof of the car, “clothes. Because this girl – ” she jabs a thumb at Evgenia, “ – is wearing a bikini. You are dressed for a wet T-shirt contest. And I am the only person in the car wearing shoes. So yeah, let’s worry about clothes.” She looks at Evgenia and plucks at her own shirt. “Clothing?” 

“Alex,” Evgenia counters. 

Lydia sets her jaw. “Clothing. Then Alex.” 

Evgenia mutters something darkly but puts the car back in gear. 

 

 

Allison’s self-conscious, but Evgenia walks into the mall barefoot and in a bikini like she does it every day. “I’m really not sure what’s more impressive,” Allison tells Lydia, “this or the driving.” 

“For the love of god, just buy something so we can get out of here,” Lydia implores. 

Once dressed, they reconvene in the food court. Allison stares at Lydia, who stares back. Evgenia drums her nails atop the table impatiently. 

“Now do you maybe want to tell me what’s going on?” Allison asks. 

Lydia crosses her arms over her chest and leans back. “You know, you have a lot of nerve for someone who begged me for help coming out here and then ditched me.” 

Allison slams a hand down on the table. “I have a lot of nerve? How about you have a lot of nerve. You lied to me. You knew what sort of information I was after and you neglected to mention you have it stashed away in a private archive, and instead I’m chasing it all over two countries!” 

Lydia has the gall to look angry. “There is a reason I didn’t say anything about that archive. The information in there is dangerous.” 

“Really? Hundred year old history is dangerous?” Allison asks sarcastically. 

“Well quite possibly, yes,” Lydia snaps back, “but maybe if you’d lifted your head out of this wild goose chase for a half a second you would realize there was a lot of other shit in there too. Like at least six different ways to kill werewolves that I’m pretty sure nobody else knows about. The kind of information that if people know you’ve been in there makes you a target. I am trying to keep you safe!” 

“A target for _who_? You’re treating me like a child! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?” 

“Did it ever occur to you that I have bigger things to worry about than your feelings?” Lydia’s eyes are blazing. 

“Yes! It did! But it could only ever occur to me in the abstract, because you won’t tell me what’s going on!” Allison can feel her hands trembling, so she balls them into fists under the table. 

Lydia narrows her eyes. “Fine. Okay. You want to know what’s going on?” 

Allison nods sharply. 

Lydia takes a deep breath. “When I took over Moorelock I inherited a small army of werewolves.” She says this in a flat voice, like it’s something that happens to people all time. Like they threw in a free toaster. “Not all of them were happy with working for me. And specifically, they weren’t happy with their old boss being… relieved of his position.” 

Allison closes her eyes and resolves not to ask. “And now?” 

“There’s a small rogue faction that’s tried to kill me.” Lydia emphasizes the word small, as though that were the relevant detail. 

“They tried to kill you?” Allison repeats. 

“Well, imagine someone took out Derek. You wouldn’t just be ‘the king is dead, long live the king’ would you? And besides,” Lydia studies her nails and then looks up, haughty, “they rapidly figured out that wasn’t a good idea.” 

Allison just shakes her head. 

The smile falls off Lydia’s face and she bites her lip. “Unfortunately they decided the best way to manipulate me would be to kidnap someone I care about. Since they can track me, I’ve been staying away from everyone.” 

Allison frowns. “They can track you?” 

Lydia waves a hand dismissively. “Irritating, psychic link thing.” 

“So let me get this straight. A group of trained… mercenaries is hunting you and your friends.” She looks at Lydia, hoping that she’s somehow gotten this wrong. 

Lydia draws patterns on the table and won’t meet her eyes. “Yes, well. It does sound bad.” She looks up and pins Allison with a glare. “Anyway, the plan was for you to be safely far, far away. Not wandering the continent. And having someone my company sponsored for a work visa pop up on watch lists? Not helpful.” 

Allison glares back. “You could have told me.” 

“Well you know now.” Lydia counters. 

Allison sighs. “And Alex? Why would they take Alex?” 

Evgenia looks up from burying her face in her hands. “Alex?” 

Lydia looks a bit chagrined. “I started a rumor I was headed to Russia for an important business deal. I didn’t want them to think I was meeting up with you. I assume they took Alex because they thought he was the person the deal was with.” She looks at each of them in turn. “Sorry, okay? But, good news is if they want him to manipulate me, they won’t hurt him.” 

Allison’s eyebrows draw together. “And if they figure out that he doesn’t even know who you are?” 

Lydia smiles weakly. “Look, I’ll just go get him, okay? It’ll be fine.” 

“Sure,” Allison says, “if by _I’ll_ you mean _we’ll_.” 

Lydia purses her lips and looks between them again, before rubbing her face in a gesture of exasperation. “Fine. Let’s go.” 

They make it to the car before Allison thinks to ask, “Where are we going?” 

Lydia taps her temple and smirks. “Involuntarily-acquired psychic powers, remember? I know more or less where they are.” She pauses. “Of course, that means they know I’m coming. But – ” and here she looks thoughtful, “ – they won’t know you’re coming.” 

They head back toward the city with Evgenia driving and Lydia navigating by feel. By the time they’ve honed in on a location, there is a plan, albeit a simple one. And thanks to a smart phone translator app, all three of them are onboard. 

At least that’s what Allison hopes as she watches Evgenia saunter across the lobby while she and Lydia remain tucked away, semi-hidden in the crowd at the entrance. Lydia is alert, watchful, with one hand gripping Allison’s elbow as though she might bolt. Allison is focused on Evgenia, because they’re screwed if she can’t get the room number out of the concierge. As Allison looks on, Evgenia tosses her hair back and cackles loudly at something the man at the front desk has said. She leans across the desk coyly and slides something towards him, then turns and walks back towards them, an extra switch in her hips. 

When Evgenia reaches them, she cocks an eyebrow and with a proud smile says, “Seven Oh Three.” 

“Oh,” Lydia says appreciatively, “nice work.” 

Allison feels an awkward and unexpected pang of jealously, which she promptly smashes. “Ready?” she asks. 

Lydia smiles. “As I’ll ever be.” She heads off towards the conference rooms, where hopefully the majority of the kidnappers will follow. 

“Come on,” Allison tells Evgenia and takes off for the service elevator. 

Growing up in the Argent household and then training under Derek, means surprising a maid and taking her down with a choke hold is relatively easy. It doesn’t mean she has to like it. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she mutters as the woman goes down silently. “Really sorry,” she says as they strip her uniform. 

Allison holds it out to Evgenia, who wrinkles her nose. “Just put it on,” Allison warns. Evgenia glares at her, but grimacing, takes the uniform and begins to dress. 

Evgenia knocks on 703 and calls out what Allison can only assume is the Russian equivalent of “Housekeeping!” Allison presses herself flat against the wall next to the door, pulse pounding wildly. 

The door swings open and, as Evgenia pushes their stolen cart forward, she holds up a single finger. At the last second, Allison slips through the door, knees the man holding it open in the groin, and punches him in the throat. He staggers just long enough for her to disarm him. She checks the chamber, and silver winks back at her. Excellent. “Down. Stay down,” she orders. And the man, thankfully, complies. 

“Holy shit, remind me to never piss you off,” Alex says from where he’s tied to a chair. He’s still in his bathrobe, looking rather Lebowski-esque. Evgenia is already working on getting him free, although not before she slaps him once across the face. 

Allison shakes her head. “Later, please? We need to go.” And then it’s just a matter of sprinting for the car. She has a moment of panic when Lydia isn’t there to meet them at the prearranged location, but she soon stumbles around the corner. She looks pale and drawn. 

Lydia tumbles into the car. “Drive. We should drive.” 

Alex translates, and Evgenia steps on the gas. Alex looks over at Lydia, who is sprawled next to him in the back. “This is wonderful. Is like a joke – a blonde, brunette, and redhead walk into a hotel – ” 

“So help me god, Alex if you do not shut up I will make sure you never skate again,” Lydia mumbles and presses her hands to her temples. 

Allison twists in her seat. “What’s wrong?” 

“There are six angry men yelling at me _inside my head_ ,” Lydia rasps. She reaches out and pats Allison’s arm weakly. “It’ll be fine. Let’s just put some distance between us and them, yeah?” 

They end up in a hotel across town. They ditch the car with the valet, and Alex and Evgenia head inside to secure them rooms. Allison hesitates before following them. She’s sidetracked by watching Lydia, who appears to be hailing a cab. 

“What are you doing?” Allison asks. 

Lydia looks at her like it should be obvious. “Allison, I can’t stay here.” 

It is not obvious. “Why not?” 

“They know where I am. As long as I’m with you, they know where you are too.” 

Allison shakes her head. “And you know where they are. Are they on the move?” 

Lydia shakes her head. “No.” 

“Besides,” Allison continues, “anyone with a wad of cash for a bribe could find out where Alex is staying. He’s apparently famous or something.” She finishes with a shrug. 

Lydia rolls her eyes and sighs. 

Allison takes a moment to look at her – really look at her. Lydia’s pale, with dark circles under her eyes that the make-up doesn’t quite cover. “Lydia, how long has it been since you let yourself come within a hundred yards of someone you care about?” When Lydia doesn’t answer – just grinds her jaw and looks away – Allison presses further. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?” 

Lydia looks distant for a second, and Allison realizes she’s actually thinking about the answer. Lydia brings a hand up to the nape of her neck and tugs at a stray curl, a nervous gesture Allison hasn’t seen her do since high school. “Come on,” she says, stretching a hand out towards Lydia, “come in and rest for a bit at least. You can ditch me in the morning.” 

Lydia looks at her, and the wariness in her gaze kills Allison. But eventually, one corner of Lydia’s mouth turns up in an awkward smile. “Okay,” Lydia says, and lets herself be led inside. 

Allison retrieves her room key from the front desk, where she is informed that Alex and Evgenia are right next door and have left her instructions to knock if she needs anything. The clerk relays this message with a clear sense of awe that leaves Allison mildly uncomfortable. She shepherds Lydia upstairs, guides her bodily through the door, and presses her shoulders down gently, until she acquiesces and sits down on the bed. 

Lydia smiles up at her, amused. 

Allison throws herself down on the bed next to her and stretches out. When she looks over, Lydia is still smiling. 

 

 

Allison wakes with a start. It’s dark outside. She blinks, disoriented, and looks over towards Lydia. Lydia is perched against a pile of pillows, texting or surfing on her smartphone. The small circle of cool light gives her face an odd, bluish cast. 

Allison rolls over onto her side. “You’re not sleeping.” 

Lydia doesn’t look up. “Can’t sleep. Working.” 

Privately, Allison doubts this is the reason. “What are you doing?” 

Lydia’s eyes flicker over to her and then back to the phone. “Jos is pissed.” 

Allison frowns. “At me?” 

“Noooo,” Lydia says, drawing the word out. “You, he quite likes. Me, he’s pissed at. And – ” she breaks off, taps a final couple of commands, and sets the phone down, “ – when he’s pissed he makes me write my own memos.” 

Allison grins. “You know, I think I might actually like Jos once I get to know him.” 

“Indubitably. You both worry about the same trivial concerns.” She waves a hand, “Eating. Sleeping. Blah blah blah.” She gives Allison a tiny, sly smile to let her know she’s joking. “You also both have the same uncanny tendency to be underestimated by those around you. Much to their eventual dismay and ruin.” 

Lydia’s eyes are sharp and bright, even in the low light. Allison feels a shiver run up her spine. 

They are interrupted by a low moan from the other room, followed by the unmistakable thump of a headboard hitting the wall. It startles a laugh out of Allison. 

Lydia quirks an eyebrow. “You’re not jealous?” 

Allison looks over at her. There’s an intensity in Lydia’s gaze that belies her joking tone. 

This is when things click for Allison, and she thinks, oh. 

She pushes herself up on one elbow and shakes her head. “That’s not really what I want.” 

Lydia cocks her head. “What do you want, then?” 

In response, Allison slides across the bed towards her. When she gets there, she pulls the phone out of Lydia’s hand and sets it absently on the side table. She reaches up to cup Lydia’s chin; draws her fingers along her jawline. 

Lydia watches her face carefully. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Allison nods, and drags the pad of her thumb over Lydia’s mouth. Lydia catches the tip between her lips and, with the tiniest hint of sharpness, bites. Allison tangles her hand in Lydia’s hair and pulls her down. 

 

 

Later, Lydia is tracing mindless patterns onto Allison’s bare skin. Her fingertips skim along Allison’s collarbone, drop down between her breasts, and spiral in towards her belly button. Allison laughs and shoves at her hand. “That tickles!” 

Lydia smirks at her. “Such a delicate flower,” she teases, but her eyes are fond. She reaches out to trace the corner of Allison’s mouth. “When you laugh, you have dimples. Right here.” 

Allison laughs again and hides her face in the pillow. When she looks up, Lydia looks a touch more melancholy, a little more distant. “I should still go,” she says softly. 

Allison snakes an arm around her, holding on. She feels Lydia’s hands settle on her shoulders. “What are you going to do?” Allison asks. 

Lydia’s hands tighten on her for second before letting go. There’s a long pause before she says, “I’m going to kill them, Allison. What else can I do?” 

A cold pit settles in Allison’s stomach. It’s one thing to know the answer. It’s another to hear it said out loud. Lydia must feel her tense because she lets out a long breath. “They’re targeting me. And people I care about – innocent people. I can’t be responsible for someone I love being hurt. I can’t do that.” 

“So you could kill six people? Just like that?” Allison can’t quite keep her voice even. 

“I’d do way worse things than that to keep people I love safe,” Lydia says flatly. 

Allison gets a sudden memory flash of blonde hair and a throat slit ear to ear. She shudders, feeling nauseated. “There has to be another way.” 

Lydia scowls. “Well, if you know of one, I’d love to hear it.” 

And maybe Allison does. She pushes herself upright, so she can look at Lydia directly. “In my book about the Beast of Gévaudan, Jean Chastel describes a trap he’s building. Something that could hold a lot of werewolves, for a long time.” 

Lydia blinks at her. “Wait. This is something you read about from, like, the legend?” 

“Like, from the history,” Allison corrects. 

Lydia frowns at her skeptically. 

“Listen. I’ve been researching this. Chastel – the original hunter in my family tree? He knew an awful lot about werewolves, and he was building something when he died. He called it a ‘trap’ – but the way it’s described, it sounds more like a jail.” 

Lydia brings up a hand to squeeze the bridge of her nose. “Laying aside any issues of morality for the moment, do we even know if he finished it? Do we even know where it is?” 

Allison pauses. “Well. No. But if it’s anywhere, it’s in Gévaudan. And that’s where we could find out more about it.” She looks at Lydia, imploring. “Isn’t it worth finding out if it’s even an option?” 

Lydia takes her hand away from her face and gazes steadily at Allison. “Fine,” she says finally, “let’s go.” 

 

 

Lydia works fast. They say hasty goodbyes, which include an incredibly awkward moment in which Evgenia glares at Allison, grabs her by the shoulders, says something in a very serious tone that Allison doesn’t understand a word of, and finishes by kissing both of her cheeks. Lydia has a terse but colorful conversation with Jos, and by morning they’re on a flight to France. 

Lydia also promptly passes out cold as soon as the wheels are up. This time it’s Allison left awake and watchful. It keeps running through her head that if she can’t make this work, she’s going to be responsible for six murders. Or something much worse. 

She shakes Lydia awake as they touch down in France. Lydia blinks rapidly and rubs her eyes. “Already?” she says. 

Jos meets them in the airport. He smiles at Allison and looks expectantly at Lydia. In return, Lydia scowls at him. “I specifically told you not to tell her about the archive,” she says. 

With wide eyes, Jos answers, “I didn’t tell her anything about the archive.” 

Lydia gives him a mean look. “I’m sure you managed to get your point across somehow.” 

To which Jos only smiles angelically. 

Allison sighs. “Lydia, what about our friends? Are they on the move yet?” 

Lydia’s eyes go distant for a second, and then her face twists in a grimace. “Yeah. Yeah, they’re on their way.” 

Allison frowns. This is not good news. 

Lydia bites her lip. “I think you and Jos should head into Gévaudan without me.” 

Allison opens her mouth to protest. 

“I know. I don’t like it either. But listen – I’ll skirt the edges of town. I’ll be close enough to come to you quickly. You figure out where this trap is, assuming it exists. When you do – call me. I’ll come, and I’ll bring them with me.” 

“That is a terrible plan,” Allison complains. 

“Do you have a better one?” Lydia counters. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Allison and Jos pile into a rental car. Jos slides into the driver’s seat and, as they leave the airport, Allison pulls out the sheaf of papers she took from the Moorelock archive. She catches Jos’ eye as he glances over at them. “Did you know?” She holds up the papers. “About this?” 

He shrugs. “Bits and pieces of it. Not the whole history. I read some of the letters. I know Auguste was just a boy when he was in Gévaudan – fifteen, maybe sixteen. But that he was smart and that he wrote a great deal.” His eyes are focused on the road, hands at a perfect ten and two. “He was sent to Gévaudan as the aide-de-camp for the royal hunting party.” 

“The ones who failed to kill the Beast,” Allison interjects. 

Jos smiles faintly. “Yes. The ones who didn’t kill the Beast. Although the local hunters were in the woods at that time too. They must have crossed paths with Chastel several times. Probably shared many meals.” Jos swallows. “I think you must know by now what the Beast of Gévaudan was?” 

Allison nods, her mouth twisting. 

“And who the Beast was?” 

“Yeah,” she says, around an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. “His brother. Jean’s brother.” She pauses, then asks, “Did he know? Did Jean know who the Beast was?” 

Jos seems to hesitate. “Yes,” he says finally. “Did you read what he Auguste says about him?” 

Allison shakes her head. 

“Auguste says...” Jos trails off. “Auguste was a good man. He was young, but he knew right from wrong. In his letters he claims the Beast killed no one.” 

Allison squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “Do you believe him? That Phillipe didn’t kill anyone?” 

Jos shrugs a bit, but nods. “He claims to have been with Phillipe during one of the murders. And he would have very little reason to lie – it certainly made things harder for him, not easier, to disagree with Jean Chastel’s story.” 

“Then who did kill all those people?” Allison asks. 

Jos glances over at her but shrugging turns back to the road. “I don’t know. The woods were full of vagrants leading up to the Revolution. Or,” he hesitates, “it’s possible Jean killed them himself. He wanted power over his brother and those like him. You’ve read about his trap? He spent the whole rest of his life designing and building it, and when he realized he would be an old man when it was finished, he planned to hand it off to his son.” He stops and looks at her. “You’re crying?” 

It’s a strange feeling – to be upset by a death that took place hundreds of years ago, but Allison can’t help feeling sickened by all of it – the inherent violence of history. The violence in her life. She hadn’t realized she was crying till he said something, but now Allison swipes at her face. “It’s a horrible story. And I’m tired of hearing about murder. And violence. It shouldn’t be like this.” 

Jos’ eyebrows twitch. “That’s a strange opinion for a hunter to have.” 

Allison sighs. “Then I guess I’m not much of a hunter.” 

They sink into silence for the rest of the trip. Soon, the road is surrounded on all sides by trees. Much of the forest Jean Chastel once hunted is now a conservation park. For wolves. Allison takes a moment to roll her eyes at the irony. The inn he once ran is at the edge of the park, restored and turned into a museum. The whole area is quiet, hemmed in by massive trees, and further up by the steeply sloping foothills that lead to the Auvergne mountains. She pauses as she steps through the museum’s doors – there is a quote of Chastel’s carved above the frame. She takes a moment to puzzle out the French: _All my life, all my works have taken place here. They are all dedicated to protecting this beautiful place I love._

It’s a bit sappy, but she’s willing to spot him points for being heartfelt. And, Allison thinks, that probably means his trap is somewhere within the bounds of this park. This narrows it down to only a few hundred acres. Inside, a woman of indeterminate age sits behind the front desk, flipping idly through a magazine, a cigarette held like an extension of her body in her other hand. She looks up when Allison and Jos enter. “Bienvenue. Français ou anglais… ou espagnol?” 

Allison smiles hesitantly. “Anglais, s’il vous plaît.” 

She ashes her cigarette. “Welcome to the park. Seven euros. Each.” 

Allison wanders the museum after paying, reading through each of the displays carefully, conscious that Jos is continually half a step behind her. Aside from the room containing the front desk, there are several rooms holding park artifacts. Maps of the area from the 1700s line the walls and Allison walks from one to the next, studying the symbols for hills, for farmland, the small, inscrutable writing. In two glass cases are the implements of historic daily life. Or perhaps they’re relics unearthed from nearby – her schoolgirl French isn’t quite up to the task of deciphering the hand-written explanatory notes, but she can pick out a word here and there. 

And some of them are obvious: this is hoe, a yoke, a lantern. And these – Allison steps up to the glass, transfixed – these are silver-tipped arrows and, lying next to them, an intricately carved crossbow. She reaches and rests her fingertips on the glass. 

Under her breath she asks Jos, “What else do you know about Chastel’s trap?” 

He shakes his head. “Auguste doesn’t speak much about it. He says only that Chastel made a key. It could only be activated by him or one of his descendants. If a werewolf swears allegiance to the key holder, he can leave.” Jos’ expression darkens. “He could have had an army all of his own. He could have controlled all of Europe.” 

Allison’s eyes widen. “What stopped him?” 

They move along to the next exhibit before Jos answers her. “Auguste stole it. He risked his life to do it, but he did it.” 

“Where is it now?” she asks. 

Jos shrugs. “I don’t know. He just says that he hid it in plain sight.” 

She looks up at that, and thinks of the gold medallion in the town of Marlen. Maybe, she thinks. But what good is knowing where the key is, if they can’t find the trap? 

The artifacts are beautiful, and interesting. But they aren’t relevant to her search for Chastel’s trap. Allison walks over to last room, which contains more modern information. She stops in front of an aerial photograph of the park. Something about the picture triggers a half-formed memory. 

She blinks. It’s the shape of the park itself that feels so familiar. It’s an irregular polygon, somewhere between oblong and star-shaped. The idea of the park as a conservation area for wolves suddenly grows more sinister in her mind. Not a park – not a zoo – a jail, a _trap_. 

She taps the glass covering the photo. “Jos,” Allison says, and her voice has that preternatural calm that directly precedes panic. “It’s the park. The whole park is the trap.” The park that Lydia is heading directly towards right now. 

Jos looks at her like she’s crazy, which, possibly yes, but immediately pulls out his phone to try Lydia. There’s no answer. 

“We have to warn her,” Allison says. “She’ll be trapped in there. With people that want to kill her.” 

Jos nods, his face grim. “We’ll sneak in – ” 

But Allison’s already shaking her head. “No. I know where the key is. And I need you to go get it.” 

After she explains her theory about the key, a thoughtful look comes over his face. “Are you sure about this, Allison?” 

Allison meets his gaze evenly. “If I can get Lydia and myself out of this – I have to try.” 

He looks back at her for a long moment. “All right. It’ll take me a few hours to make it to the border and back.” 

“We’ll be waiting for you at the front entrance.” 

“You hope.” 

“I hope.” 

 

 

It’s dark by the time they stumble out of the museum. The woman at the front desk grumbles, and, clearly having been waiting for them to leave, flips the sign on the door to Closed and heads across the parking lot to her car. Allison watches her headlights disappear and then turns to Jos. 

“You’ll be careful?” he says. 

“You’ll hurry?” she counters. 

He nods once, and then he’s gone. And she’s alone. 

The park is eerily still. Allison walks the perimeter of the fence line until she finds a tree with limbs that hang over into the interior. She climbs, scooting out along the branch as far as she safely can. It sways gently, sending her stomach reeling. She takes a deep breath and is about to jump when, from the darkness below her, she hears a low growling. Allison freezes. Then, there’s a long howl from somewhere nearby. And yeah, not only is there a known quantity of unfriendly werewolves somewhere in here, there’s also an unknown number of others (wolves? werewolves?) trapped in here as well. 

She crawls back toward the trunk. She needs some kind of defense. She needs a weapon. She has no weapon. She looks back toward the museum. 

The door she forces open easily. Praying silently that there are no alarms, she pushes it open and steps inside. She goes straight to the case containing the crossbow and breathes a sigh of relief when she sees it’s still there, exactly as she last saw it. Glancing at the case, she decides there’s no hope for it – no other option but to make some noise. She smashes the glass with the metal bin. She freezes as the sound of shattering glass echoes in her ears. It sounds impossibly loud. When there’s no other consequence, she knocks the larger shards away and reaches in. She lifts the arrows out first. They’re heavy, but well-balanced – they should fly just fine. She lifts the crossbow, exhaling a small prayer, and examines the stock and the trigger. They appear to be sound. Finally, she runs her finger down the length of the string, and her heart drops – it’s stiff and rotted through. It would break on the first pull. 

She reminds herself that she’s re-strung a hundred bows and looks around. She finally finds rope in the maintenance closet. She pulls the end of the rope up, unbraids the end, and uses the tip of one of her arrows to saw off a portion of the correct length. The process takes a while, during which her mind has plenty of time to remind her that all her experience is with modern bows, not untested eighteenth century models. Working mostly by feel, she slides the newly fashioned string into place. She gives it a test draw. It holds. 

It’s awkward re-climbing the tree while clutching the bow, but she manages. Over the pounding of her heart, she can hear rustling, padding footsteps beneath her. An occasional yip. She summons her courage and peers down into the darkness beneath her. The rustling stops. Another growl issues upward. Goosebumps pop up along Allison’s arms. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she calls, trying to keep the quaver out of the voice. “But I’m armed.” She brings the bow to her shoulder, inhales, exhales, and fires an arrow in a random direction towards the ground. There’s a burst of movement below, during which she takes a wild leap out of the tree. She manages to land mostly on her feet, falling to one knee, and then she’s up. She spins in a circle. The park is eerily still. She starts walking. 

It’s only a day or two past the new moon and it’s dark. She’s roughly sure she’s in a straight line, but she has to go slow to avoid tripping and she rapidly loses track of time. And really, she has no way of finding Lydia. She just has to hope that Lydia finds her. She keeps the bow cocked; she knows she’s being watched. She gives the trees and brush a wide berth, sticking to the cleared areas and trying not to set herself up for ambush. Still, it’s only a matter of time. 

She imagines watching herself from a distance. She imagines tracking a lone figure, moving slowly, from the shadows of the tree line. If it were her hunt, she reasons, she would wait until her prey passed as close as possible to cover, decrease the chances of her prey being able to get a shot off. She looks ahead, where a bend in the nearby creek will force her up close to the trees. There, she thinks. She deliberately makes herself let go of the bowstring and, even though her heart is hammering in her chest, makes herself maintain the same slow pace as she approaches the trees. 

Even though she’s expecting the attack, when it comes, it’s almost too fast for her to respond. A crackle of leaves gives her the split second she needs to spin, to have her bow out and ready, and to get an arrow off. It’s a blur of adrenaline and muscle memory, and then she’s staring down at the body of wolf, its chest neatly speared by her arrow. She exhales long and hard, and checks her surroundings for other comers. The forest is still again. 

As she emerges past the copse, a howl issues from deeper in the park. And suddenly, the trees are alive again and Allison can hear movement on all sides of her. She freezes, adrenaline surging. But the noise is fading rather than rising, the movement away from her rather than towards. Eventually, a quiet settles in, deep enough to make her own breathing echo loudly in her ears. She’s about to start walking again when a wolf appears, trotting out in the open towards her. It’s coming directly towards her, making no effort to stay hidden. Allison’s hands tighten on the stock of bow, but she keeps it pointed towards the ground. A few yards out, the wolf slows to a walk, then stops altogether. It cocks its head at an angle and studies her, and this, more than anything, is what convinces her. “Lydia?” 

And it’s so strange, standing out here in the dark; stranger even than seeing Scott for the first time. Lydia – and she’s suddenly absolutely, completely sure it is Lydia – looks wholly foreign, unearthly in the thin light. Allison looks for a trace of humanity in those unblinking eyes. When it’s not there, she drops her gaze. The world sways a bit and Allison thinks that maybe, somehow, she is already too late. 

There is a distant howl and Allison looks off into the dense woods. When she looks back, Lydia is standing before her, hair wild, a long gash running the length of her arm. 

“Allison. There’s something strange about this place.” Lydia’s voice is oddly hollow. 

Allison has to try twice to speak. “This place, it is the trap.” 

Lydia nods like she has been expecting this. “Good. That means the plan worked, right?” 

“Yeah, but, it means you’re trapped here too, unless – ” Allison starts. 

Lydia cuts her off. “I would much rather be trapped in here with them than have them free to roam and hurt people. I would much rather have you safe. In fact, you shouldn’t be here.” 

Allison rolls her eyes skyward. “When are you going to learn that this whole do as I say, not as I do thing doesn’t work?” Lydia doesn’t acknowledge this, so Allison continues, “I can get you out. Just please, come with me. Trust me.” 

It’s like there’s something battling it out behind Lydia’s gaze. But she finally says, “Okay.” And they make their way back towards the park entrance. 

The sky is gradually lightens as they walk, turning gray and bruise-purple. The forest around them is still, but Allison keeps a tight grip on her bow. 

Lydia eyes her hands and then gives her a sidelong look. “They wouldn’t dare.” 

They continue to be left alone by the parts other residents. When they pass the corpse of the wolf Allison shot, Lydia raises an eyebrow, but Allison’s stomach twists and she looks away. 

Allison feels a palpable sense of relief when the exit comes into sight. Even Lydia seems to relax beside her. There’s a lock on the gate, but it’s old and easily forced. Allison glances back at Lydia, who has stopped short several feet back from the fence line as though she’s hit an invisible wall. 

Her face looks strained, and the tendons in her neck stand out. “I can’t,” she says, surprise in her voice. Her breath is coming in short, sharp rasps. 

“Lydia. I’m going to get you out of here.” 

But Lydia’s eyes are wide and she looks wild in the uncertain light. “Yeah? And how exactly is that going to work?” 

Which is when Allison spots Jos coming over the rise. “With his help.” He jogs the last of the distance toward them, holding something up in his hand for her to see. Something that flashes in the early morning sun. 

Allison meets him at the fence line. “Thank you.” 

He’s about to say something, but his face takes on a worried look. Meeting her eyes, he juts his chin back and up toward the tree line. He slips the key – it’s more of a medallion, really – into her hand and steps back. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

Allison looks down at it. There is no flash of light, no reassuring magic buzz of activation. She swallows and turns to find out what he was looking at. Lydia has her back to them now. Her hands are at her sides, fingers flexing. She’s staring off into the tree line with an ominous intensity. 

Allison sprints back through the gate to where Lydia stands. 

Lydia shakes her head. “You should get out of here.” 

Allison holds the medallion up to her. “No. We should both get out of here.” 

Lydia spares her a quick glance. “What is that?” 

“This is the key!” Allison replies. “This is what’s going to get you out.” 

Lydia edges so she’s standing between Allison and the trees, glancing warily between them. “How does it work?” 

Well, there’s no getting around this one. “You have to swear fealty to me.” 

“I – wait, what?” Lydia flashes her a disbelieving glance. 

“Look, you swear and we both walk out of here alive,” Allison says. 

Something draws Lydia’s attention back to the trees. Allison can make out shadows moving, now. “Or,” Lydia says, projecting her voice, “we could just wait a minute and I could slaughter all of these assholes who came at me and my friends.” 

Allison’s mouth sets in hard line. “Is that really what you want? To run from one country to the next killing people?” 

Lydia scowls. “Maybe you missed the part where they tried to kill me? Or how about the bit where they were plotting to kill you?” 

“But they didn’t. And that’s not how things should work – you don’t get to go around killing people just because you want to. Not for revenge, not for anything!” 

When Lydia looks at her, there’s something wild and angry in her eyes. “I didn’t ask for this, you know.” 

“I know,” Allison pleads, “but you can still be better than this.” She risks setting a hand on Lydia’s arm. “I’m not asking you to be a slave. I’m not asking for a pet. I just want to walk out her with you. I’m asking you to walk next to me. I’m asking you to let me walk next to you.” Her chest is tight; her eyes are suddenly stinging. 

Lydia looks at the hand resting on her arm. “You know what you’re asking for?” She searches Allison’s face. “There’s no getting out of this. You’ll be stuck with me for life.” 

Allison nods and for a second her throat is too tight to speak. “Yeah, I know.” 

Lydia chews her lip. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. She lifts her lip in a half-snarl towards the woods, but after a very long moment, she turns away. She turns back towards Allison. “Okay,” she finally nods. “What do I have to do?” 

“Just swear loyalty to me. To obey me.” 

Allison grows anxious as Lydia’s gaze drops to the ground. There’s another long pause, but when Lydia looks up, there’s a small smile playing across her lips. “Oh Rhett,” she says, “this is all so sudden.” 

And so Allison is still laughing when Lydia says, “Yes. I swear to love, honor and obey Allison Argent. For as long as she’ll have me.” And maybe if there wasn’t a whole crowd of potentially deadly foes watching them, Allison would have gotten kissed, but as it is she has to settle for Lydia’s hand sliding into hers. 

Allison opens the door, and Lydia walks through it.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, man. You have no idea how many times this story was gutted, turned inside out, and re-built. If you guys have stuck with me this far, I really appreciate it - and I hope you enjoyed it! All the good bits are due to the influence of Trip Trap, who did an above-and-beyond job reading, editing, and demanding that the story be, you know, interesting :)


End file.
